Time to Smell the Roses
by Nameless-Sufferer
Summary: Valentine's Day One shot - when Valentine's Day rolls around, John would much rather just not notice the love holiday. His plan would have succeeded too if he hadn't received a little gift. A wrapped bouquet of pristine roses with a note. Who was this person? Who was "Your Lonely Admirer"?


_Okay, I know that for some of you, Valentine's Day is over and gone, but where I live, it is only 11:24 pm so it's still Valentine's Day. Nonetheless, this is the one-shot I promised. I hope you enjoy the little thing. The chapters to my other fanfic will be updated in the morning since my internet is messing up._

_EDIT: I added more to the ending since it was highly rushed. I'm also thinking of doing a fun St. Patrick's Day one-shot eventually, what do you think?_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

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><p>I get up from my arm chair, the one that I immediately sat on the minute I got here and the one that you claimed mine. I was finished with my tea. It was an awful cuppa this time, but nowadays I could never make a good cup of anything, coffee or tea. No matter the blend or the bloody difficulty of it all. They all tasted the same, bland and utterly bitter compared to what it used to feel across my tongue. Ludicrous resentment and guilt that was poured into every cup I ever made. I suppose I could blame you, since by this point everybody did, but I found it impossible. I tried, I actually did, but nothing came of it besides a tearful denial and a disgustingly running nose that wouldn't leave me for hours.<p>

Cleaning the dish in the sink thoroughly and slowly, I glazed over. My hands were moving in stuttering , robotic movements as I tried to think through my hungover phase. By this time my migraine had resulted to throbbing and the double-strobe lights had slowly come together to become one. My thoughts were still a mess though, almost like when I returned from overseas, but worse. This was different, stronger, more profound. It made me feel like utter shit but I couldn't stray from the drunken source. It was the only topic that penetrated through my haze of unconscious dizziness and nausea: alcohol. Bitter morphine to temporarily drown out the sorrows.

It's funny really. Drinking must have ran in the family at this point. My father was a drunk, my sister is a drunk, and now I'm becoming one after sobering up for only 2 years. Those two years were the best years of my life, I mean it, because of you. You kept my mind in one path, one free of alcohol abuse and the loss of health. Even though you had bad habits of your own, even those kept me standing. You were what kept me from running back to the bottle and now your the one at fault for having my involuntary body crave the substance once more. Damn it all...

I wanted to reach towards the bottle at this very moment to be honest, to sod off every last painful memory I had of you. Your stupid high-collar coat and sharp cheekbones and everything about you. You were a rechargeable battery that always appeared when I didn't need it. The liquor helped of course, but it was only a brief relief. It just made you a blur and my mind foggy so I couldn't feel the pain. With my sobering up, your observing blue eyes were starting to infiltrate through the haze and judge me. I hated your judgment then and even if I would give anything for it now, today was simply not the day. Not today, mate.

I would much rather have you show up in flesh then to materialize as a figment of my imagination. At least, it would make me appear a little less insane than I feel, right?

I chuckled lightly, humorlessly. If you were to show up, I have a feeling I would punch you in the face a few times, just to make sure you were real. I would use a hit to make you feel sorry. A throw to make you realize the pain. A lurch as to why you never came to me and lastly, one good hook in the jaw just for missing you. Yeah, you may think people never cared, but _I_ _do_, or at least I did when you were alive.

God damn it. I have so many questions now that you are gone. Various pointless, boring, and utterly murdering questions that no one can answer now. Inquiries said to no one but the stilled air in which you presented yourself. High and mighty, haughty at sight... you were definitely a character.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair before leaning on the counter. God, I felt so drained today. Actually, no, that was a lie. I felt this way everyday for a year now. I should have found a girlfriend, somebody to relinquish my pain towards so comfort can envelop my cracked heart, but I haven't felt the need. It's weird actually.

Greg says I should try to find a young one, somebody to make me smile again, but I don't listen to him much anymore. He was at partial fault for your death, for your fall. Him, Anderson, Donavon, even Mycroft. They were all at fault and now they try to be nice to me and offer me condolences because they feel guilty.

They were far from the most potent fault of your release. That was me. I was your friend. I should have been able to get you off that bloody roof, but did I? No I didn't. I was useless. What good is a doctor when they can't save a person in need, especially a good friend? I can imagine you mocking me for that thought, saying that I shouldn't be so naive. Not all lives can be saved or the world would be overcrowded with idiots.

I thought you should know something else. A monster had started to form at my feet, a little dragon that nips at my toes when a smile forms. It watches me from the corner of my eye and everywhere I go. It reminds me much like you did, but worse, and of course, more negatively. It's a terrible monster, but I can't slay it. As much as it annoys me to say this, I am the damsel in distress in this situation and you were the knight in shining armor to stab the dragon in the heart. Now that you are gone though, the dragon has returned with replenished revenge and reluctance to leave my side again. Stupid, petty issues to be completely honest. Another weight on my shoulders along with just _today._

I glanced at the day and almost wanted to shape my face into a grimace. February 14th. Valentine's Day. I only got to celebrate this pointless day with you one year, you know. I was expecting many more actually, each ending in a break-up due to your big, egotistical mind making my girlfriends think I was in a relationship with you. To be honest, it was actually kind of amusing the only time it happened. You pulled it off so well with being nonchalant and utterly bored, but pulling off the possessive tone in your voice to attach to me subconsciously. Well, it was annoying too since she only lasted half an hour. I still don't remember her name. I guess she wasn't important compared to you. Ha ha...

What did you describe this day as again? A 24 hour period in which many hopeless-lovers, fake or not, would try to show the affection in which they highly lack or rather not show at all? You were crude in that remark, though the smile that was expressed meant you were trying to pick on me for enjoying the holiday. I hope you sod off for that you know. You practically ruined any future February 14th after that remark with your cursed baritone voice. The same voice that mocked me and the same that I would so wish right now to deduce me for enjoying the holiday you despise with a passion.

I felt a tear trace my jaw, but let none else fall. The tear fell, but the many more that would follow never did.

_No John_ I thought to myself sullenly _Another time. Just hold it in until you visit...him. Maybe you can use it to lever your wish higher for him to not be dead despite the times you sometimes threatened so..._

A knock resounded through our, no, my flat. They were soft, timid, and frail. Ah, it was Mrs. Hudson.

I guess you could say that after your... leaving, I learned to tell who was at the door by the type of knock they had. I blame you so much for that. Your death brought the press to the door every single day, asking how I lived with such a _murderer_ and a _liar_. It killed me, so I refused answering the door. I knew you weren't a liar. I knew you so well, though not as well as you do yourself I suppose. You said you pretended, that you made up Moriarty, but please Sherlock, I know that you were trying to push me away. Sorry, but nobody could act like such a dickhead 24/7 all the time. Not possible, except for your arrogant self.

Nonetheless, nobody else could see that. Nobody but me, your only and best friend.

The press though! You were so right about them let me tell you. Annoying little pricks to be completely blunt. They come at the most ungodly hours of the day and request practically a dozen questions before I slam the door in their face. How was I coping? What was going to happen to the blog? Will I ever get back into crime solving without my ever-deceiving detective? How about they sod off. When you spoke of the press, I thought you were kidding, but you weren't. They never stopped bothering those of their attention until the victim was broken. I'm not broken. Not yet. I'm near the end of my rope I will admit, but broken has not appeared yet. I've been using my last defense as a soldier under torture to endure this. I'm trying not to let the cracks show, but they do peek every so often and by that time, the press will be after me all over again to make the crack a hole, and the hole a piece of me missing.

The knock came again and I sighed. Mrs. Hudson, right. I forgot about her.

Walking towards the door, I plaster a fake smile and open the door. As she looked me over, her eyes widened and I saw tears reflect off at me. I wanted to swear at my idiocy. I should have taken a shower or something. I'm pretty sure I look bloody awful right now thanks to my lack of hygiene and caring. Making Mrs. Hudson, your surrogate mother, cry was not on my bucket list in the slightest.

"What is it Mrs. Hudson," I spoke softly, cringing at the sound of my voice. It was rough and scratchy from too many bottles running its course and disuse. I don't talk anymore just so you know. I nod, I smile, I give breathy laughs, but talking doesn't happen again. Wastes my breath and you always said breathing was boring. I've come to realize the same thing but can't change it.

"Ah, this is for you dear," She mumbled, a smile on her face slowly falling, "I-I think they are from a secret admirer He was a cute one that one was. Red hair, sharp cheekbones, bright blue eyes. I'd swoon for him if I were you, John." She winked at me. It was almost a twitch but I said nothing and gave a laugh, light and barely heard.

"For the last time Mrs. Hudson, I'm not gay," I assured, a smile on my face.

"I've met a few young men and women who were like you, John. They think they are in the right area until that special someone comes around as an exception," she added in a singsong voice.

A chuckle on my part, "I haven't met a special someone yet, but I'm sure it will be a she."

"I don't know... I always thought Sherlock was the one, or at least, I thought you were his."

I blinked, "You are mistaken Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock has made it clear that he was married to his work and any internal relationships were irrational and utterly boring to take part in. Perhaps you mean someone else?" I didn't imply her age, as that would be bloody awful to mention since she was truly amazing.

She smirked (an actual smirk!), all knowing in her eyes, "I may be losing my touch, but I know when somebody likes one another as I have seen it and experienced it. The way he looks at you and the way he laughs and smiles around you. It only happens around you. Oh, not to mention how he enjoys your compliments of him and tries constantly to impress you. Trust an old woman when she says that you held a crush."

Just hearing her say crush and Sherlock in the same quotation dumbfounded me. "I... doubt it Mrs. Hudson. He thought me boring and quite dull, but even if he tried to impress me, it was only because of our friendship. A dysfunctional one at that. Plus, even-"

"But John, dear. Just fancy the thought-"

"-if he held such feelings for me, he's not here to clarify them. It... would only make things worse to treasure such thoughts, especially on today."

Mrs. Hudson got saddened as I relayed the truth to her once again. Reality checks always hurt. I know for a fact since for the first 3 months of your passing I would always jump out of bed with a smile on my face, expecting your death to be a horrible nightmare. I thought you were alive and perhaps looking for an interesting case, but the reality and absurdity of the thought soon set in when I would see the dust filled flat and an empty chair.

I took the package from her and smiled as thanks, about to close the door when she placed a knowing hand on my arm.

"Are you okay? You've changed so much in the last year that I worry for you. Have you lost weight? You look so much thinner now, almost as thin as..." She trailed off before coming back with more worries, "Can I bring you something? Some tea or coffee? Perhaps some dessert of some sort? Perhaps you should go see that private detective or Molly. Nobody should be alone on this day, dear, especially not you."

I smiled sadly and looked her in the eyes, "I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Brilliant even. Don't worry about me, it will cause more little gray hairs to pop out of that lovely head of yours, " she gave a small smile, "but I'm not alone. I have... friends, just not the kind that you would think of." With that I prodded her hand from my arm and slowly shut the door, leaning on it for strength.

She was observant she was. I have lost weight. Two stones and still counting. My cheeks were more shallow now, malnourished as I refused to eat on some of my worst days. You would think the beer to cause a beer gut of some sort, but on contrary, it didn't do much. Probably since I haven't drank too heavily yet. Just whenever the nights get awful. Still, most of my clothes hang loose on me and people are starting to notice. Perhaps if I stuff some foam I can get them to stop worrying about me.

Sliding down the door, I sit cross-legged and look at the package.

It was neatly addressed to this flat with a fine-point pen. The package itself was in pristine condition with not even a tear.

Curiosity latching onto me, I open the package gingerly, aware of how my hollow fingers move to get the package to tear.

I hooked my fingers in the package and pulled out...roses. A bouquet of 7 to be exact.

I smiled a small smile _They are probably from Mrs. Hudson to cheer me up or maybe even Molly. I suppose they are nice flowers, but I really don't have a use for them. Perhaps I can hide them and throw them out later when no one is looking._

They were astonishing. Each perfectly trimmed with no flaw in sight. I almost swore to myself when my mind first thought of you at that little innuendo. Simple things do this now. Remind me of you. Why. Why does it have to be you and not some past girlfriend or even my mother? Why you? You were my only friend and...

...

You were my only friend. Of course.

I frowned as the thought hit me. Perhaps it was because you were the one person who sought flaws in everyone but yourself until your own petals were wilting...

I shook my head, lower lip trembling. No. I need to get rid of these before even more memories are stirred.

About to toss them in the bin, I caught a glance at the little card attached to the roses. It was hand-written. Neat, legible, almost print-like dexterity. Reading it aloud with barely a note above of whisper, I felt my grip tighten slightly:

_Roses are red._  
><em>Violets are blue.<em>  
><em>Go to the place.<em>  
><em>Where Sherlock first met you.<em>  
><em>-Your Lonely Admirer<em>

I started chewing on the side of my cheek, thinking. This could be a trick. This could very well be a prank, or a genuine tease, to get me out of the house. A fool would follow this, a fool who was very bored and as utterly lonely as the admirer that sent the bouquet.

Well, I suppose you would call me a fool then because I followed the note.

-  
>I cautiously opened the door to the laboratory, expecting no one.<p>

Of course that wasn't what what actually there, or rather, whom.

Molly stood there, staring at me as I walked in in a mixture of shock, surprise, glee, and another emotion I couldn't quite read. Maybe it was... mischievousness? No... not Molly. Certainly not Molly the slightest. She couldn't hide a trick to save the life of her, at least, that was my point of view. You had your own views of her, but they were rarely ever made aloud. What did you ever think of Ms. Molly Hooper? I remember you complaining one night about how she rambled on and on over a cup of coffee, but that didn't really explain much did it? You never took that much attention of her, right? I wonder what you would have thought now since she was recently engaged. That's right. She was engaged to this young man whom holds a strikingly likeness to your old attire. Coincidence maybe... no, you always ridiculed me into thinking nothing was a coincidence.

Leaving her table with assorted liquids of varying colors and types, she dusted her hands and walked over to where I was standing.

"John? I didn't expect you to be here," she spoke with a little smile on her lips. She had expected me, I knew she had. She was a terrible liar as always.

I chuckled a little, my voice still raw, "I-I didn't expect to come either, but... a little birdy told me something might be here for me?"

Her eyes also got a little sad at my voice, but brightened up immediately, "Oh! Yes! I think there is something for you. Somewhere... around here..." She started busying herself around the lab, trying to find the package that was supposedly for me. As she did so, I glanced around the room. Memories were coming together like puzzle pieces. Not many things happened here unless a case occurred, but so many mesmerized thoughts have been saved from this lab whether cold or warm. Ugh, I hate being a sap. I still blame you for this. I never was a sap for these kind of things. Love? Yes, maybe a little. Memories of fallen friends? Not so much. I was a soldier that greeted death with open arms and yet it was your grim reaper that reduced me to ashes.

I've seen quite a few of them, grim reapers. One was of the friend that saved me in Afghanistan, one was yours, and one was mine when I saw the blurred bottom of the beer bottles. Grinning, mourning, chuckling.

"Oh John! I think I found it. It's quite the pretty package don't you think so? I wonder who it's from? All I caught was a tall man with red hair and ice blue eyes..." with that she gave me the package and I opened it immediately.

More roses, but this time there were 6. I searched for the note along the stems and found it, a smile breaking across my face for once in a long time.

_Valentine, valentine_  
><em>You are divine<em>  
><em>A shot out of line<em>  
><em>Friendships a sign<em>  
><em>-Your Lonely Admirer<em>

I furrowed my brows a little. A shot out of line? Friendships a sign? This clue was slightly more difficult though if you were here, you would know it in a second. I hate your brilliant mind, but I wish I had it right now.

"Hm? What's that?"

I showed her the note, "I... It's a note. I think whoever my admirer is made a scavenger hunt based on my memories of... him."

She gave my a sympathetic smile but I avoided it, "Well, a shot out of line reminds me of a gun rather than the figurative speech. Perhaps think of it as that. Friendships a sign... so maybe you shot something and since you shot to, and I'm going on a limb here, save that person's life, a friendship was made?"

I blinked, looking up at Molly with wide eyes, "Molly. You are brilliant, absolutely grand!" I hugged her briefly before running out the door.

I remember Molly taking out her phone with the familiar gleam in her eye as she texted someone.  
>-<p>

The familiar twin buildings brought back a sense of nostalgia along with the adrenaline rush, albeit only a small one. My brain registered memories that made me want to rush in with my gun at my side, but my heart stopped any quick reflexes real quick. Shouldn't it be the other way around? No, I shouldn't be asking you this. You never really listened to your heart at all! Blimey, I don't even think half the people you met even thought you had one to begin with. You did, I know you did, but you never used it. Abused it. You used only your logical mind and instinctual deductions.

I wonder what it would have been like if you actually used your heart?

Wait, no I take that back. It was a good thing you didn't listen to your heart. Your heart overestimates things into a very introvert perspective. You... you would have jumped sooner if you listened to your heart because you would listen to everything people said...

Sighing, I glare at the buildings. Now, lonely admirer, which building could you ever mean? The left one where he almost took the pill or the right one where I shot out of line? God I hate riddles.

They both looked completely identical, down to the last brick, except each held a different half of the same story. One with the man who challenged death and the other, the savior. No. Not savior. Saviors... well, they save people. They try their hardest to save one person's life to make sure that the person doesn't die. They would even _die_ in their place. I didn't do that. I was too late. I should have been with you. I shouldn't have left you like the others. If I had done so much of the opposites, you would still be smirking and making fun of my lack in fashion sense and even less in my choice of women.

But no. You can't do that now. Currently, you were buried six feet under the ground, crumbling to nothing but dust and other substances. You... would never live again.

Ugh, I really really need to get that through my head so I can stop relishing the past...

Ha, who am I kidding? You know me all to well to know that things like this will stick with me for the rest of my pitiful life. The wars and the people, friends, that died. They still haunt me, even now, but now your just an addition. Not unwelcome, but not...welcome either.

Well, I should probably get this hunt out of the way. The sooner it's done, the sooner the bottle can reach my lips with the numbing elixir.

I pulled out the crumpled paper and tried to zoom in on everything but the words. It eventually turned out worthy as I spotted a faint "R" in the lower right corner of the message. It was so ill-defined that I was only ever able to view it by raising it to the sun. Genius, almost like those watermarks they place on some currency nowadays for the reassurance it wasn't a fake. It was the width of my smallest finger and was tinted a faint blue. The kind of blue that only the sky can make on the water just about. Whoever was in charge of this was intelligent. Well, at least the hunt can be promised to never be boring.

Taking a step towards the right building, I look behind me, self-conscious, before continuing. The doors were unlocked despite it being unused currently. I shook my head. _Don't think too much into it John. Perhaps you should observe for once instead of seeing like Sherlock always mentioned._

Yeah, yeah. I always saw but I never observed. That was his motto when it came to those under your almighty intelligence. Bloody prat. He was constantly the one pushing the thumb down on others and no matter how much you resisted, he always won. Even now, the resistance John held to such a slogan was gone.

_The... the door is unlocked so perhaps the person in charge either has the key, stole the key, or knows somebody in relation to him that contains it. Either way, he had the key to open this door. There was no way it could be a random stranger because then it would become habit to always lock the doors, right? I don't even know what I am observing here. Well, maybe I should just walk in. I never was one for all this detective stuff. I'm a bloody doctor, a avid blogger as well, not someone who can deduce a murder in less than 10 seconds flat_ I thought to myself as I shook my head and opened the door, letting it softly shut behind me.

_Well, at least I don't have to worry about which room they spoke of. It's quite obvious this part at least_ I thought to myself as I strode through the hallway. The skin and bones of my figure was starting to take toll as the chilly air slowly took a hold of my hands, arms, and face. The darkened halls of Roland Kerr College only made it so much more horrible. It was just above fifty degrees outside, yet it seemed almost like the low forties in this building. You wouldn't be bothered though, oh no, because you had your fancy Belstaff coat and subtle blue scarf. You would mock me, or better yet, ignore me as if I shouldn't be freezing at all in this weather! Cases always came before health so of course you would think that. The cold nip at the tips of your fingers would only be a faint hum compared to your adamant success in the case you pursued.

Hm... I wonder if you would pursue this like a case or another one of those boring "issues" that you didn't even attempt if it was under a 7.

_No John. Stay on track. You have to find the next box_ I told myself, scolding my wandering mind. I had a feeling that if I just went home and slept through this, I might miss something big. Besides, it's Valentine's day is it not? What's a better way to spend Valentine's day than to chase a "lonely admirer" dropping bouquets of roses with a clue attached?

When I reached the room, I opened it slowly, sighing in relief when the warm rays seeping through the windows landed on me. The room itself was overall brighter than the last encounter I was here. It actually looked like a class now and not some scene for a murder. Funny how weather does that. It was definitely a mood changer. Rain, night, clouds bring darkness and bad things. Sun, clear skies, and snow bring wonders, curiosity, and happiness. It was weird but definitely true, wouldn't you say?

I looked around the room for something that stood out, particular a white box. I expected that at least. Another white box with fine-point dexterity and a neat address to me or to this address. I found nothing of the sort. What I found instead was nothing but a unpacked bouquet that was decorated with a blue bow. I was confused briefly before deciding that maybe it didn't matter. Maybe my admirer just got a little tired and didn't package one. Wait, why am I worrying about this? I don't know the person! Although my heart may think so, I know it's a trick and that the person can very well be some stalker on Baker Street that has seen me around.

I walked up to it and counted 5. Five little pristine roses that were adorned with a lovely white ribbon on each stem. I didn't care so much for the amount or the flowers in general so much as I cared for the actual clue for the next bouquet. Observing the roses, I felt my brows furrow as I couldn't find the note. It wasn't on any of the stems. I looked on the floor but nothing was there but settling dust. Was the game over? No, wait, there it is. I found it under the wrapping and pulled it out.

It was slightly longer by I few verses and continued even on the back of the little card, but it was still intriguing nonetheless.

_Oh hurting valentine_

_Your heart aches for mine_

_But oh boring valentine_

_Just look at the sign_

_Swim towards those that hurt you so_

_I want to say what you want to know_

_-Your Lonely Admirer_

That was it. It was just as vague as the last one,but there were less clues, less figurative speech. It held no obvious phrases stating the next destination at all. It was just feelings that I rarely consider. It was all emotion that I may or may not be able to reciprocate back.

I ignored the little nag in the back of my mind. The same prick that was swiftly denied when I first met you. I swore then that I was straight, nothing could deter me of that fact. Of course, by then I hadn't even met you. When I did though, I felt that thought go out the window and get ran over by a bloody cab. Mrs. Hudson had been right of one thing earlier today. As much as I will _never_ admit it, you were an exception to that rule.

But it didn't have to be love. Certainly not. This was only a highly dysfunctional relationship that made us need each other. Just a feeling that made me preform the most idiotic stunts and the most risky actions. Shooting a man through a window. Punching an annoying bloke in the nose for speaking horribly of you. Trying to get back at Irene at our meet up for making you depressed as you were. It made me do it. This... weird relationship we held by a red thread. Of course, this same red thread, long detached, now made me follow this hunt. It made me read this note.

If only you were here. You would know _exactly_ what to do. Actually, this would be the kind of thing you would do. Accurate to the par. Nonetheless, I knew it wasn't you. Never could be. Though... these poems did remind me of your speech, aside from the valentine theme.

I glanced at the card, deciphering tidbits that could help me. The only words that stuck out were "boring", "swim", and "hurt". Boring, of course, made me think of you, but this wasn't you. This was some bloke who wanted to either tease me, or to actually have feelings. Either way, he probably was another critic of your actions, hating your guts for _deceiving_ them. If they were like that, I will drop this as soon as possible because you were not that. Far from it. This thought led me to the next word. Hurting. Hurting only brought me to now. I was in pain currently, but that was obviously not what the narrator meant. He meant that at that place I got hurt. A place that made me physically, or mentally, weak.

The last clue was swimming. You hated swimming, never ever took a case with it besides the one where Moriarty exposed himself to us.

_Wait_ I thought _The only case. Oh, this man is brilliant! Oh god, never mind that thought. I feel like Sherlock when he got the Study in Pink case. He must have rubbed off me. Of course he did. I was stuck with his arrogant arse for a year or two. Still, that_ was _the only case that we ever neared a pool. I remember him eying it wearily. Moriarty did it on purpose... that still made me angry, but he was dead now. Shot in the head. Perhaps... perhaps that is the place. It was a pool... it did result in mental and physical pain... It wasn't_ boring _exactly, but I suppose had I not been in danger, you would have been able to say it was so._

I felt my eyes widen as the conclusion hit.

That was it!

Smiling triumphantly, I run back out and start hailing a cab to Bristol South Swimming Pool.

The water reflected across my face in faint patterns. White, moving lines crossed my tired features as I got lost in thought. Any sort of light was only from faint streams from the lights above, being an indoor pool an all. No sunlight penetrated through to its cool blue surface, much like good never pierced through the heart of Moriarty or yourself. Funny how I compare you to water now. You always hated it, but of course you never really thought about how you were so much like the said fear.

Besides the said comparison, this pool also brought back memories of that night that you met your arch-enemy. The shock you felt would have been amusing had I not been caught up in the same facade as yourself. The look you gave me when I walked out gave everything away but _I couldn't say anything without risking blowing us up_. You showed hurt, betrayal, slight annoyance. It was painful, but the bloody psychopath wouldn't let me utter a word without his say so.

Tapping my foot, I looked around the room with a faint frown lining my face. I hated it here. Being strapped to a bomb does that to you. If it hadn't been for you, I would be in the grave now, blown beyond recognition. I suppose I have that to be thankful for, but I can't say it to you.

Too late. Far too late.

I sigh and kick the ground below me, a soft cloud of dust rising. This place hasn't really been that popular since the press got a hold of the bomb attempt. Any sense of pride this place had disappeared by their sharp words. Parents feared their kids would be in danger and teens just didn't want to go. It was practically abandoned. If only they realized that if it hadn't been for you, this place wouldn't even _be here_. It would be rubble, perhaps some new store. I'm honestly surprised it's still here myself though.

At least the status of the place was still in good condition...

The water was still clean. Even if the place was no longer packed as per usual, they still kept it tidy in hopes it would just dissolve eventually; that perhaps one day a visitor will come and their business with thrive again.

Well, one can hope, right?

I peered into the water, a shadow shaded across my face. The clear water cast out my sullen face. Dark bags under my eyes, nearly dead eyes... they was brighter now, just slightly. It didn't change my caved in cheeks or my pale complexion, but it did help a sense of excitement reach my eyes again. It must be the hunt. It was reminding me of how you and I were when we were on cases. Laughing, smiling, even poking fun at each other, it was utterly amazing. You always knew which way to go, which way was the right way to solve the murder. Your dark, Belstaff coat and your piercing blue eyes only expressed just how _absorbed_ you were. I always looked up to you for that. Never giving up.

You were so bloody inconsiderate sometimes! You always claimed that I was dull and sometimes made the most boring decisions, even if they were for your health. Calling Anderson an idiot wasn't that awful, but saying it about others you didn't even know was harsh. I would try to find your weak points then, the points that would make you annoyed or slightly embarrassed.

Of course this led to to finding out other small things like how you liked your coffee, black and two sugars, or your mood-swings. You were always angrier when the case caught up to a dead end and you had no patches left, but that was my doing. You were going cold turkey and I enforced it. You hated me for it, despised me even. I was a soldier though and not even the most threatening of glares could waver me so. You always thought of new ways to get me to tell you where I hid them, even mentioning that you could tell me next weeks lottery numbers. Yeah right, Sherlock. You are absolutely brilliant, but you can't deduce the luck of the draw. Nonetheless, I think the funniest parts were when you practically pleaded with me for them. It was priceless. Had I been smart enough and had an actual phone to record video, I would have recorded it just to watch it over and over again.

Still, there were few parts that I liked of you besides your actual physique. No, I don't mean _like_ like. I mean like, as in a _friend_. You were the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome that everybody spoke of. You were an egotistical idiot, but you also held tidbits of compassion whenever it was needed (almost never!). A quick thinker and unable to be deterred from doing anything you didn't want to do. You were brilliant in your deduction skills! They made me look like a child on Christmas eve, awaiting until midnight to open the gifts I only _dreamed_ of. All of these things I noticed and I concluded with them that you were human, despite my first theories that you were some robotic hybrid judging from your stoic attitude and your stand-offish ways.

These were merely attributes I noticed as a _friend_. This is what _friends_ see, right? I lived with you for a while so I should certainly know you!

Ugh! This game was making me over think things! The words, the clues, the scenes, they all came back around to the narrator. The game maker.

Who was this bloke anyways? I would guess a female, but the poems are so close to home, almost hitting the nail on the head, and not some sappy love story. It didn't mention how they loved me, but how I acted towards them, but... that was nearly impossible. I didn't even leave the flat that much anymore much less converse with somebody with actual interest! Sure I left for work and all, I have to pay the bills somehow, but I didn't go out to the pub with friends anymore. The only comfort was in loneliness itself! So.. who was this man that knew me so well? Almost inside and out. He almost knew me better than I knew myself, like you.

If and when I meet this man, I might have to pry a few things from him.

...

Okay, maybe not a few things. Perhaps twenty or so, but I need to know! I don't even know this man and he _obviously _knows all about me! It kind of makes me wonder who he is. Is he some third brother of you and Mycroft that you two failed to mention? I honestly wouldn't be surprised at this point.

Speaking of the narrator.

When I turned around to rethink my previous clue, I immediately spotted a patch of red. Flourished petals decorated healthy stems as well as a small pile on the tile itself. They were red roses, but that was not what stopped me. What ceased me was that they _were not there before_. When I passed by that corner into this room, I saw nothing but stained tile. Now, there was another bouquet of red roses. I didn't even hear scuffling or any signs of movement whatsoever and I know I would have known if somebody was here. I was trained to listen to every little noise like my life depended on it and the fact that I heard nothing either meant I was getting old (God no.) or that they were extra stealthy. It was as if a ghost came and went when I was pondering my thoughts.

No tracks littered the floors. No scuff marks were made. Not even a _speckle _of dust was out of place. It was a clean transaction. They must have been there maybe a minute or two ago though...

Wait, could he still be here? Perhaps I can get to finally meet this mysterious individual! About bloody time.

I rushed towards each end of the pool, checking every corner. Everything was so dark and full of shadows. I couldn't make anything out of it. No matter how much I tried to squint into the dark corridors, nothing was spotted and nothing was heard. Whoever it was was gone now.

I sighed and walked back to the pure roses, picking them up with one hand. Four. Only four roses remained in this batch. One less than the last and two previous to that. The game maker was trying to make it clever so that the final rose would lead to him. It wasn't original quite, but it was different from the standard scavenger hunt. Places with the darkest memories only attended for roses. It made me look like a lovesick school girl (ugh...).

Even so, the quality in which the flowers bloomed were nothing less then extraordinary. Uncorrupted of any natural cause to wilt, not even the edges were frayed. They were satin smooth like the first batch I received. Just like the other roses, it also held a note on it's stem. Once again, the note was a tad bit longer with a "P.S." inserted at the end. Huh.

_Dark to the light of friendship or love_

_Sherlock was this you see; a dove_

_Refusing any rays to touch his cracked heart_

_You were an exception, a reason he didn't want to part_

_Now, he did hold affection for another_

_A fair lady of lust who worked with his brother_

_But, even so, he didn't truly love her at all_

_Despite what he said, it was you for which he would fall_

_P.S. The game is ending soon, Dr. Watson. I hope to meet you soon._

_-Your Lonely Admirer_

I swear. Every note was another to throw me off. At first it was a love story, then a combination of that and a little history on Sherlock. Now, of all things, it is of how he... apparently loved me? No. Absurd. Utterly impossible! He was married to his work and only his work. How many times must I say that to those that think they know what's going on in that mundane head of his? Even I don't know what does through it and I live with him!

It was a genuine poem just the same though.

It was nice to know he made the clues slightly easier. I already knew who it was that I had to see and I didn't like it at all.

She was the one to grip your heart and rip it from your chest, holding it in her hands. She claimed she loved you, but you saw through it. It did take you a few months to figure that out. Mrs. Hudson and I didn't know what to do about you. The violin was practically your only companion. You refused to confide in myself and, when you were not on a case, you were in your room doing God knows what. It was a dark time and terrible.

It was so fitting how I would have to face her on the worldly day of love and all that.

I walked out of the pool area, shoulders slumped even more so as thoughts plagued my mind.

Love was something so subtle and impossible to latch on. This, of course, was why I never stayed in a relationship long. Besides my... small feelings for the detective (that disappeared immediately might I add!), I was horrible with commitment and even worse with memory.

Nobody would know more about having so many different types of that than Irene Adler.

Knocking on the door, I was hoping to make this visit short. I didn't want to stay here long, especially with her. I just needed to get my roses, my card, and I was out of here. If I get lucky, perhaps I won't have to see her again for a while. At least, not until some other holiday.

"Yes, who is it?" A female voice spoke on the speaker close to me.

Startled, I sighed and looked in the camera, "It's John Watson. I'm here to see Irene."

I could just _feel _the smirk on the other end, "What is your business Dr. Watson? Pleasure? Guilt?"

I wanted to yell, but held it back with a calm facade, "No. I'm here to talk about an old friend. A certain... Sherlock Holmes."

The line on the other end went silent before the doors opened to reveal Irene. She was just as beautifully stunning as she ever was, but this time she had clothes on. It was a red outfit for Valentine's Day of course. It wasn't some short dress, almost like those long satin dresses you see in movie premieres to be honest. I know she wasn't in any movies though so it must just be for the special clients she attends to. At least she is somewhat decent today. I sighed in relief at this. I wasn't planning on getting seduced if I could help it.

"John," she spoke with a smile on her crimson lips. Her eyes locked with mine, but quickly receded when she didn't like what she saw.

I briefly wondered what that was. Cold, lifeless eyes? A sickly complexion? Thin, chapped lips that have long since smiled for anybody? Whatever it was she took notice in, it wasn't something she expected to see on me I suppose. She didn't like it. Nobody did. Well, you always did say everyone was a critic.

"Irene," I responded before adding, "I'm here to retrieve something. A bouquet of probably three roses?"

I saw the smile on her lips widen before she motioned me inside to the room where we first confronted her. Sitting on the couch in the exact same spot you did, I began tapping my fingers. It held no beat, no rhythm, it was just avid tapping to help calm me down. You would exclaim I was nervous and you would be right about that without a doubt. I didn't like being here. It smelled to much of you, it reminded me too much of you. Even seeing her made me imagine you sitting exactly here with her standing in front of you with nothing on, as odd as that sounds.

Irene was watching me carefully from her chair, legs crossed. She had one elbow resting on her crossed leg, using the palm to hold her face. She was trying to deduce me. Sorry, but not this time, or any I suppose for that matter.

"The... roses?" I prompted, hoping for her to just plop them on my lap so I could leave.

But things like that never happen, oh no, it had to be _so _much more difficult than it had to be.

"Why do you need them John?"

"For a game."

"A game?" she inquired, interest in her eyes, "I would love to join."

"No," I responded curtly, "The game is for me. That much I am certain. I was the one who got the first seven roses with the note and no where on it had it mentioned that you were to join whenever you please... Please, just hand me the bouquet so I can leave?"

She tsked, "I'm not going to let you leave without a few answers first you know. I am curious of some topics that deal with you, well, actually your love life, but that can be for another time."

"I don't plan on coming another time," I muttered.

If she heard that, she obviously didn't care for she continued to analyze me. He piercing gaze was quite contagious. It made me want to sit up straighter, to stop slouching over like a man who lost the only thing dear to him. God, I wonder if you felt this way under her eyes.

"Somebody loves you," she claimed softly, her eyes landing on mine again.

"Actually, no. That is where you are wrong. I have no relationship at all in speaking," I assured firmly.

"I didn't mean somebody you were seeing now. I mean somebody else. You knew him. Tall, dark, handsome. Definitely was the new sexy then you know."

I felt my cheeks get hot and wanted to hide my face, "Sherlock? He is dead. Shouldn't the accusation be past tense anyways? There is no way he is alive, and even if he was, he wouldn't love me. Bloody prat wouldn't love anybody. He is attached to his work Irene. I'm sure you could tell this from him."

Sighing, she stood and sat next to me. She was staring in my eyes, her slim hands on my even slimmer wrists to stop the twitching I felt right now.

"You are an oblivious fool John."

"No I'm not," I sputtered.

"Yes. You are. Take it from me. I can- could, tell that he loved you. Why do you think I assumed you two a couple? It was blatantly obvious to even the slowest of individuals. He loved you John. Just the way he looked at you made it clear, especially when he saw your life at risk the last time you were here. Now, I can also say a few things of you. You love him back."

It wasn't a question, but a confirmation.

My eyes widened, "No I don't."

She smirked, "Yes you do. I learned from Sherlock the subtle signs of telling if somebody truly loves you. He actually tested the said tactics on me when I was into him. They are actually quite ingenious. I'm shocked I didn't notice such despite my history. Anyhow, what I was saying is that when you look at me, your pupils are perfectly normal, but the second I mention Sherlock- see! Your eyes dilate. That isn't it. Your pulse. It quickens when I mention anything of him, especially the parts in which I said he loved you. Believe me when I say that somebody, or he, did love you."

I felt the color drain from my face and was about to stutter more nonsense when she pushed the bouquet of roses and sauntered out of the room, the smirk still glued to her face. She was done talking and had done her deed on making me the most uncomfortable man in this bloody planet.

_I don't love Sherlock, certainly not. She must have been picking on me. That has to be it._ I thought as I saw the door close behind her.

_Still. Was she right about him loving me? No. She lies. Perhaps she was lying then. I should get back to the game. I only have two places to go if I am correct._

Sighing, I shook my head. This wasn't worth trying to think over. Daylight only held a few more hours at this time and I had even less money in my pocket from all the cabs I had to take.

Without further thought, I took a glance at the bouquet.

Three roses. Perfect like the others.

Pushing them aside, I reach in and take a hold of the note, pulling it out. Like the last two, it was gradually longer.

_An angel can fall from their high perch_

_But they don't have to be angels at all_

_A demon can smile in it's attempts to lurch_

_But it will still undoubtedly have to fall_

_Sherlock was both, but not at the same time_

_He was a egg that was already cracked_

_The demon and angel were in rhythm and rhyme_

_But it was too late to see if he would come back_

_All eggs break and all eggs will fall_

_All of the glass will come to appall_

_All of the friendships will utterly end_

_All of the love was perfectly well spent_

_- Your Lonely Admirer_

The admirer was becoming much more morbid, as if he was you. Some of the rhymes were off, but it was still... meaningful in it's own way. It stuck out like a light in a midnight sky.

_Wow, poetic much John? Don't start. That is the admirer's job. Your a blogger, not some word genius. _I scolded, but a faint smile lined my shady features.

Even though the words in this were as illusionary as the rest, I knew where to go before I even finished it.

I had to go back to the place where reality crashed down on me like a living nightmare.

The place where you fell from your mighty throne.

You know, it only took them five minutes to clean up your blood. I watched from the bench, head in my hands, as they did so. Even after feeling your pulse personally, I still couldn't believe it. Part of me wanted to slap you awake, to reassure everyone that the greatest man alive was not... dead. I wanted so hard to just think that you would come home in a few hours with fake, peel-away wounds on you for the effect. I didn't expect you to be dead since so many fake it and still come back.

Even now, I still can't believe it. Naive right? It's almost like I am repeating that day, except without your body. I was sitting on the same bench, on the same side, with my head in my hands. Tears were threatening to spill, but I held them back behind a crumbling will. I suppose going to Irene's was an underestimate compared to how much I didn't want to come _here. _I would rather spend the day with her then return to this very spot.

Wiping my blurred eyes, I lifted my head to look at the building you stood on. It only seemed like minutes ago you were reaching towards me with tears in your eyes and a broken voice. Why. Why did you have to fall? Was it me? Was it the press? Was it just the stress of it all? Why can't you be alive now to answer all of these bloody questions!

I was alone now. I was cast off and once that happened, I realized how much I actually depended on you. At that point, I concluded that our friendship was not... friendship. It was some other symbiosis of some sort. I depended on your actions to keep me from loneliness and I for you. You're gone now so I can't exactly explain this to you. I could say it to your grave, but I'll wait until after my game... I'm sure your mocking me where ever you are for my complacent idiocy.

My dark figure didn't even fit the scene I was in. All around me couples were talking and kissing. A few of the men proposed and all the ladies said yes. It was... actually kind of sickening. In any other given situation, meaning if you were alive, I would probably smile and say good for them. That was then. This is now. I obviously wasn't the same man that I was merely a year ago. Everybody could see that, but not everybody can be observant to see a lonely man when they see one, not that I wanted to be noticed anyways.

I jumped when I felt a man sit down next to me on the bench. His hands were flying across the keyboard on his phone, sending out text after text.

The man himself had red, short-cut hair and sharp cheek bones. He was wearing a sweater with the collars of his button up sticking out like some of the styles nowadays. The glasses on his face were black thick frames that encased ice blue orbs. I would have thought him you if... well, if you weren't blatantly dead.

"Hello? May I ask why you are staring at me?" the young man asked, a thick Russian accent in his voice. Huh. Well that explains most of his complexion but not all of it.

"Ah, no. Sorry. I'm just... waiting."

"Waiting for what?" he inquired, watching me instead of his phone.

I gave a sad smile, "A sign. I'm waiting for a sign."

He looked down and I swear I saw his expression go dark before returning to normal.

"What kind of sign," he questioned again, "A lover? Girlfriend or boyfriend?"

I laughed, "No, no. I haven't had such in a long time. I don't really date anybody at all really since a terrible accident a year ago... I'm waiting for roses actually."

Why was I telling him all of this? I was opening myself up to a stranger. Perhaps it was because I felt kind of secure around him. He reminded me of you actually, besides the physical characteristics, his attitude was much the same.

"Like... these?"

I peeked over and my mouth dropped as he quizzically made two roses appear, one with the clue.

"I-! Where did you get these?"

He smirked a little before quickly dropping the expression while shrugging, "A random man gave them to me. A supposed admirer I think." With that a black cab appeared and the young man stood and walked in the cab. He was smiling now. Oh. He was used by the man. A mission of some sort to give me the roses... I sighed and was about to yell at him when he shut the door, yielding any further response. Before it drove off though, he rolled down the windows and with knowing eyes told me, "Don't deny what you feel John. I'm sure you will see him again and when you do, he will accept your feelings, no matter how absurd and completely irrational they may be."

The cab drove off quickly before I could yell out a reply. What was with people and saying something before leaving so abruptly? Well, okay, Mrs. Hudson it was me who shut the door, but for Irene and everyone else it was the same! This man was a stranger, completely new to my eyes. How did he even know my name?! I didn't shell it out to him at all.

Ah. Of course. He reads my blog. He has to. There is no other _sane_ answer to that.

But then, how did he know about my under-developed feelings for you? I will admit that by this point, I realized that all my little observations were not... a friend way of acting. I knew so much about you that friendship didn't really entitle. Learning your habits, ways, the things you like, dislike; it was a long list of notes I had taken without even noticing what I was doing. I didn't know it then, but I was crushing on you. Unbelievable right? It had to be you of all people, go figure. Couldn't be some other bloke, no, it had to be you.

Well, if I have concluded this correctly, I should be able to tell you this... soon. I didn't want to, but getting it off my chest would be so much easier than keeping it bottled up.

I chewed my bottom lip as I detached the note. This was it. This was the last note to the last rose.

_Cemeteries are said to be lovely in this chilling weather don't you know? Beautifully astounding, but morbid. The perfect weather to say anything you want in my opinion. Perhaps you could meet me there? A shady tree with a blackened stone. A blackened stone with white script. White script with only a name that you should know well Dr. Watson. _

_Sherlock Holmes._

_-Your Lonely Admirer_

All the poetry was gone now. Flowing allusions and interesting figurative speech had dissolved. This note was literally just that, a note. He even gave away where to go so obviously. To be honest, I was a little disappointed and was hoping for one last hard clue, but the evening was settling in so I suppose it was a good thing he didn't leave anything too hard.

Hailing the last cab, I directed the cab to take me to the cemetery.

I... I wanted to talk to you anyways.

The cemetery was lovely in this type of weather. The narrator was right about that. It made everything so dull, but not dull enough to be boring. It just made all the colors subtle and appreciative. It was almost like one of those watercolor scenes you see painted in various of ways, but couldn't really picture yourself in. Then again, you weren't really into art. You appreciated such talents, but you never really took a liking to it as much as your very own violin.

I chuckled with a little bit of humor. Had you not been dead for a year now, I would imagine you in some absurd place right now with the said instrument, but of course, such wishes can't come true now can they? I already asked your cold tombstone before and it didn't happen. At that point, I concluded that your death was not a trick to the mind. It wasn't some little deceiving folly to throw off the consulting criminal you hid from my view. No, it was the truth, cold and hard with no sugar coating. You were gone, still are actually, but I couldn't come to terms. Funny, huh? I'm stable when it comes to the death of my friends in Afghanistan, but your death, _your death_ is what caused me to scratch into a endless, broken record.

Walking to your grave, I spotted a man already there. He was just standing in front of your grave, his head tilted forward. I didn't remember a man in resemblance of his stature, but you did have your homeless network. Wait, no, this can't be one of them. He was in a long...Belstaff coat with black slacks and nice dress shoes. The same outfit you wore for every hour of your bloody life. That ludicrous coat that often came with some button up shirt of some color.

He wasn't you though. His hair was red and cut short, not dark and with volume. I couldn't see his eyes or any of his face really, but I knew it couldn't possibly be you. Just a man that probably believed in you. I wouldn't be surprised you know. It seems that after your death, a little fan group had appeared out of no where, claiming your innocence and the fact that you were not dead. I always thanked them when they appeared with some crazy theory since it replaced my reprimanded grief with a brief moment of hope, but it never lasted long. Perhaps this man can shed some light on the subject. The thought made me smile as I appeared next to the man.

"He... He was a good man."

The red haired man was quiet, his face too low to actually see. A shadow was against his sharp features.

With a soft rumble of his voice, he spoke, "Yes. I suppose he was. Arrogant, egotistical, and utterly weak, but brilliant."

That was all he said, nothing more.

I kicked a little of the dirt beneath my foot and felt my smile drop a little, "Yeah. He was a bloody idiot to go off and kill himself without at least coming to me. I could have helped him. He didn't have many friends actually. I would like to believe I was his... only friend to be honest. Nonetheless, it seems that friendship wasn't strong enough to aid in ceasing his fate."

"How do you know he didn't jump for friendship?"

Looking up at the man with wide eyes, I glanced at the grave. Suddenly, I began to chuckle.

"I... I suppose I wouldn't be surprised. I could never really understand him, Sherlock. He was a mystery, a book that was never truly finished and I was determined to follow the pages until the very last letter was written for all of his choosing to see. He didn't have many of those though. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, but other than that, I was it."

"I suppose you are right." The man remained silent after that, his silky voice empty and reminiscing.

We stood there for a while, maybe half an hour, just staring at your grave. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence in the slightest. To be completely honest, I felt utterly calm and at peace standing next to the stranger at your place of rest. He almost held the same aura as you. Reserved, quiet, yet a little mysterious as if he can be the complete opposite at times. He had his hands in his Belstaff coat, the pockets twitching every so often. He was holding something, but it seemed he was waiting for the right time to take it out. Did I interrupt something perhaps?

"If he were here, what would you say to him?"

I was taken aback for a second before thinking about it, "I... I would say the same thing I told him after his funeral. I repeated the chant every time I came here, hoping for him to return with a smirk of idiocy and blatant egotistical cunning, so it only fits that I say it to him when he returns. I suppose you could say that I would repeat it to make sure I wasn't looking at an apparition, something to see if I got a physical reaction to hope he was real. It's a silly notion I know, completely illogical and irrational, but I would do just that. Then again, I would also tell him how I felt. Took me a while to realize it myself..."

"What feeling would that be, John?"

"Love," I admitted with heat rising.

All was silent once again after I mentioned the single, heavy word. After a minute of breathing in the chilly air, the heat in my face resided to its normal color. My eyes trained the figure next to me, trying to figure out who he was. He was moving his hand in his pocket a little more decisively, gripping something. Looking up at the man's face, I felt my brow furrow slightly at his change of expression before smoothing out to indifference.

A smirk reached the mans face as he raised his head a little, a single rose in his hand. Ah, so he was the narrator. He was the one behind all of this.

Nodding, I took it. I would read the note, then I would see what the man looked like.

_You see but you don't observe John.  
>-Your Lonely Admirer<em>

I furrowed my brows and looked up to the man questioningly only to drop the paper in my finger tips. I heard it land on the ground softly, rustling with the leaves. I didn't care about the note no longer at that point. I didn't care about the game I just played at all. The man that was the game maker. The man that planned this out. No. No that was impossible.

The man that stood next to me was none other than you. I could tell immediately. The only adamant difference was the hair style and the color. That was it. The rest was the same. Your high cheekbones. The smirk laced through your lips. The pale complexion and the piercing eyes. It was you in the flesh, not from my imagination no longer.

I could feel my knees become weak and thought about my options.

I didn't know how to react. Should I run? Should I hug you? Should I punch the living daylights out of you so that I can kill you personally because that was what you deserved right now. My mind was incapable of thinking of a decision. It was frozen, on stand by.

"Well, John. Don't disappoint me," You spoke, light mocking in your voice. I could see your eyes and I knew that you were a little concerned for this meeting. You didn't fear anything, or at least I didn't see any fear in your eyes, but you looked a little worried. I could see the hands at your sides flexing into fists and relaxing once more. It was a constant pattern. I was concentrating on the fact that you were here that I didn't answer the question at first.

"John?"

"W-What?"

"Your... speech. You said you would state that again and then you would tell me how you feel. Unless, you were lying, though I know you John and you are, if anything, loyal to your word."

Of course. You would want to hear it. I wonder how many times you have heard it already. Were you here every time I murmured those same words of truth. Were you here in hiding while I shed tears for your moulting corpse? Was your casket even filled with a bloody body? This was becoming too much too quickly and I felt my mind becoming jumbled. I know I said that I would say it if you were here, but now I couldn't bring myself to do it so easily. With you here, alive and just not dead I couldn't stop thinking of the year that I witnessed and experienced. I wanted to say the things I promised, but it was really, truly hard.

Nonetheless, with a betrayed hint to my voice, I tried.

Looking down at the ground, I clenched my fists. I hoped for this day, but I didn't imagine in the slightest that it would be this difficult to manage. I could feel the tears rising to my face, "You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero. Um... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there."

I took a shaky breath, tears falling down my sullen face. You were completely still, almost like you were frozen, but I continued, meaning every word so much more than before, "I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle. Sherlock, for me, don't... be... dead," My voice failed me at dead, but I finished it, "Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this..."

By this point, my walls so carefully built were knocked down. I was on my knees, sobbing. My facade was gone, stripped away from me as if it was a blanket. I suppose in more ways than one it was. It was my security blanket, the one thing that kept me from becoming too emotional over your death. Now that you were alive though, I knew that blanket was worthless now. It wasn't useful in the slightest if you were here listening to my every word as if you never jumped off that bloody roof. I was broken, mentally speaking, and I didn't know what to do.

Before I knew it though, you were on your knees in front of me. You looked like you were trying to consider something, a decision of morals. Eyes full of hurt and worry, I saw you reach your hands out and pull them to your sides. You were unsure of what to do, whether to comfort or watch. You were raised to believe sentiment and caring was a characteristic on the losing side. I could understand if you didn't want to get close to me.

But I realized soon enough that you had changed in the year you were gone.

You pulled me into a hug. It was uncharacteristically gentle compared to your attitude but I continued to cry like a lost child.

"You are a bloody idiot, you know that? Why didn't you call me o-or just tell me you were alright?" I blubbered, trying to cease my childish tears.

Sherlock looked down, "I... I couldn't put you at risk. I couldn't risk Lestrade's, Mrs. Hudson's, or even your life like that. Believe me. I would have told you, but I didn't want to spoil the good life you would have without my lies. Now that I see you though, it appears I left you in worse condition than before."

I gave a humorless chuckle, my voice was bitter, "Yes you have. I was broken for a year Sherlock. I never left the house. I never even went out to drink with friends. To be honest, I don't even think I have any more thanks to the press."

You tilted your head towards mine, sincere apologies everywhere, "I'm your friend."

I shook my head, "No you're not."

I could tell I shocked you. Your form went rigid. You had seen a problem and I could see in your eyes that you were receding to your palace to try and figure out ways to solve it. Sighing, I placed my hands on either side of your face, looking you in the eyes. With a deep breath, I continued slowly, "You're not my friend anymore Sherlock. You are somebody even more special to me. Someone who I realized I can't live without, that being your stubborn arse self. Even if your bloody violin playing or your absurd sleeping and eating habits annoy me to no end, I will still be your loyal blogger, and if you allow it so, even further maybe."

You sighed in relief before giving a smile, "So, is that a yes?"

I rolled my eyes and blinked when the raw orbs produced tears at the movement, "What do you think? Yes it's a yes Sherlock. Yes, as much as I never expected it, I love you, you git."

After I uttered those words, you leaned in and gave me a soft chaste kiss on the lips before moving away briefly, "Happy Valentine's Day, John."

"Happy Valentine's Day Sherlock."

* * *

><p><em>Yeah yeah. I gave up on the final part when I was unsure on how to approach it. I was going to have John punch him, but I decided to change things a little.<em>

_11000+ words guys. That's a lot for me to write in practically 2 days since I had constant work from school and babysitting. I even passed out typing on my laptop._

_Well, Happy Valentine's Day. Review/Critique, whatever._

_Ciao_


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